


Let It Be

by Brumeier



Series: Bite Sized Fic [106]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music, Family Feels, Family Secrets, Father-Son Relationship, M/M, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-08 20:33:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7772110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brumeier/pseuds/Brumeier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>LJ Comment Fic for Secrets prompt: <i>Stargate Atlantis, John Sheppard +/ any, musician AU, why John stopped playing his instrument for a while.</i></p><p>In which Patrick Sheppard finally has the talk with John that he's been putting off for so many years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let It Be

Patrick took a chance, returning to Red’s on a night he knew John was playing. He regretted the way they’d left things, and this time he was determined to have his say. He’d always been a bit of a coward where he youngest son was concerned, but now more than ever he needed to set things right.

He tried to be unobtrusive this time, choosing a seat in the back. He sat through several mediocre acts, and one girl that had an amazing original song but not much of a singing voice; the waitress that announced her said she’d just sold a song to what Patrick assumed was a prominent recording artist, judging from the crowd response.

There was no sign of the McKay fellow. Patrick had done some research on him, discovered that he was a musician as well. It seemed like a good fit, because John and McKay would have that in common. He sometimes wondered if things might have been different with Grace if he’d been more a part of her world.

The waitress jumped back up on stage. “Now I know ya’ll have been waiting for this next act. Put your hands together for the finest flyboy to ever pluck a chord, John Sheppard!”

The crowd hooted and hollered, and Patrick added his own applause to the cacophony. He was proud that John was doing so well with his music, that he’d rekindled that connection to his mother. 

John came out, wearing jeans and a black t-shirt, guitar in hand. He’d always been a little shy in front of a crowd, and Patrick could see the hesitance in him still, but he sat on the stool and tuned the guitar and smiled at his audience.

Patrick wasn’t familiar with the song, but then Country had never been his type of music; he was more of a classic rock kind of guy. John didn’t have the voice his mother did, but he wasn’t unpleasant to listen to.

_I don’t know why I act the way I do_  
_Like I ain’t got a single thing to lose_  
_Sometimes I’m my own worst enemy_  
_I guess that’s just the cowboy in me_

Patrick found himself nodding along in time to the beat. John kept his eyes closed and his head tilted to the side as he sang, and sometimes he looked so much like Grace it made Patrick’s heart ache.

_The urge to run, the restlessness_  
_The heart of stone I sometimes get_  
_The things I’ve done for foolish pride_  
_The me that’s never satisfied_  
_The face that’s in the mirror when I don’t like what I see_  
_I guess that’s just the cowboy in me_

John put so much emotion into the lyrics, as if he’d personally written every word. That was the real power behind his performance. 

Patrick joined in the applause when the song was done, and already the crowd was chanting for another. John grinned out at them.

“One more? How about something from the late, but undeniably great, Man in Black?” 

As soon as John started to play, somehow evoking the rhythm of a train, cheers went up and more people got up to dance. Patrick had forgotten how much John liked Johnny Cash, how he’d spend hours listening to the same album over and over again.

_I hear the train a comin’_  
_It’s rollin’ round the bend_  
_And I ain’t seen the sunshine since I don’t know when_  
_I’m stuck in Folsom prison, and time keeps draggin’ on_  
_But that train keeps a-rollin’ on down to San Antone_

John was hamming it up for the audience now, and it was almost eerie how well he evoked Cash while he was singing. Something about his voice, his inflection…even the expression on his face.

_When I was just a baby, my mama told me, Son_  
_Always be a good boy, don’t ever play with guns_  
_But I shot a man in Reno just to watch him die_  
_When I hear that whistle blowin’, I hang my head and cry_

People were singing along, and one of the other musicians came on stage with her guitar to play with John. Even after the song was over they kept on playing, turning it into a jam session, and Patrick was amazed all over again at his son’s skill with a guitar. He had deft, dexterous fingers, and when the other guitarist challenged him to play faster and faster he had no trouble keeping up.

They finished up with a flourish, and the waitress hopped back up on stage. 

“Woo! How about that, y’all? A big round of applause for John Sheppard and Lanie DuPrais!”

John kissed the woman, Lanie, on the cheek, saluted the audience, and walked off-stage. Patrick waited for him to come out to the bar, but he didn’t. Instead, the big bartender with the dreadlocks brought Patrick another Scotch on the rocks, and directed him to a door off to the side.

“He’s on the porch,” the bartender said.

Patrick thanked him and carried his drink out. It was a nice night, clear and not too cool, and there were a handful of people at the far end of the porch smoking. John sat at a table in the shadows, a bottle of beer in his hand.

“Just can’t stay away, Dad?”

“Seems not,” Patrick replied. He sat down in the chair opposite John. “You were really good up there.”

“Thanks.”

Silence spilled between them as Patrick struggled to think of a way to start. He knew they should’ve talked years ago, but it had always seemed easier to keep on as they always did; best to have a little of John than none at all.

“The thing is,” he said finally. “I was trying to keep from losing you, and I did anyway. Ironic.”

“What are you talking about?” John leaned forward, elbows on the table, his brow furrowed.

“I came here to apologize to you, John. It’s long past time.”

“I don’t –” John started to say, and he was pulling back, pulling away, and Patrick’s hand shot out, and grabbed hold of John’s forearm. 

“John. Please.” He hated sounding desperate, especially in front of his son, but he _was_ desperate. “Let me say what I came to say, and then you never have to hear from me again if that’s what you want.”

“Fine.” John yanked his arm out of Patrick’s grasp.

Patrick took a steadying sip of his Scotch. “I loved your mother. I always will. But she didn’t make it easy. She was always on the road, always going to the next gig or the next protest. And I was always left behind.”

“You could’ve gone with her,” John said, and he sounded almost exactly like his petulant ten year old self. 

“No. I couldn’t have. The music, that was your mother’s. It was never mine. And when we had you boys, someone needed to make sure you were provided for, looked after.”

There wasn’t as much money to be had from Grace’s career as people might have thought. Everyone got a piece of the action – her band, her manager, the record executives. Grace had been impulsive, and had a tendency to sign documents without reading them, or having Patrick look them over. She signed away more money than she ever made, because for her it had never been about getting a regular paycheck.

“It was mine, too,” John said softly. Patrick could hear the years of hurt behind the words, and the guilt burned anew.

“I know. I know it was. And it scared me, John.”

“What? Why?”

“The day after we buried your mother, the record company called. They wanted to sign you, wanted to set up a memorial tour with you playing Grace’s songs.”

John’s mouth was hanging open. “You never said anything!”

“I couldn’t let them do that, John. I would have lost you, the same way I lost Grace. You were so young. The industry would’ve eaten you up and spit you out before you were twenty.”

Patrick remembered being terrified. He’d contacted his lawyer that same day, and made arrangements to keep both the boys safe from any promotion of Grace’s music. Their names weren’t to be used, or their likenesses. They may have owned Grace, but Patrick wasn’t going to sacrifice his children to that life.

“You got rid of all her things,” John said. He rubbed a hand over his mouth. “It was like she never existed.”

“I thought I was doing the right thing at the time. If I knew then what I know now, I’d have made different choices.” Patrick knocked back the rest of his drink. “I just wanted to you to know that. Everything I did, I did because I love you and your brother. And I was afraid the music would pull you away, the same way it did your mother.”

“Why now?” John asked. “Why tell me any of this?”

“Because I miss you,” Patrick admitted. “And I’m sorry for all the wasted years, for both of us. I know you probably won’t believe me, but I’m so happy you’re playing again. You have a real talent, son, and maybe if I hadn’t forbidden you to pick up a guitar…well, who knows.”

That would always be a big regret for Patrick. He let John’s talent wither on the vine, insisted he learn piano instead because that was more socially acceptable in the business circles that Patrick moved in, even though he knew John hated it.

“I would’ve stopped playing anyway.” John rocked his beer bottle back and forth. “It hurt too much, remembering how it used to be with Mom. Easier just to let it be.”

“Then we both made a mistake.” Patrick reached out and put his hand on John’s. “When you play, she’s right there with you. Even after all this time.”

John looked away, but he turned his hand so he could squeeze his father’s. Patrick’s throat got tight. That was a huge step for the both of them.

Patrick wanted to ask John to go to dinner with him tomorrow, so they could get to know each other again, but John’s cell phone started to play something bluesy.

“It’s Rodney,” John said apologetically. He pulled his hand away and answered his phone. “Is everything…no. Rodney, calm down. I can be there in fifteen minutes. Yes, I will. See you in a few.”

“You have to go,” Patrick said.

“Rodney and his sister are having some family issues.” John was already on his feet, slipping his phone in his pocket and fishing out his keys.

“I’m going to be in town for a few days,” Patrick said. He stood as well. “I’d really like it if we could get together. Maybe have dinner?”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

But Patrick could feel his opportunity slipping away. John was distracted by whatever was going on with McKay, and Patrick tried not to feel hurt that he wasn’t his son’s first priority. He never had been.

“I’ll call you,” John said. He did a very athletic vault over the porch rail and into the parking lot, the lights on a pick-up truck flashing as he pointed his keys.

Patrick watched him drive away. “I love you, son.”

**Author's Note:**

> **Songlist**
> 
>  
> 
> [The Cowboy in Me, Tim McGraw](https://youtu.be/vs3euLuHqko)
> 
>  
> 
> [Folsom Prison Blues, Johnny Cash](https://youtu.be/bDktBZzQIiU)


End file.
